GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #810: THE RETURN, PART 2

 

So the next day I went back to Graceland Cemetery to find Death from issue 2 and the Greek ruins from issue 3. Finding the statue of Death is easy. It marks the family grave of the pioneers who founded the City of Chicago. But no one is interested in the plaque on the back. Everyone wants to peer into Death's face to see how they're going to die.

That's not me talking out my ass. That's the urban legend. The first time I looked Death in the face? I saw Death's face and nothing more. That's held true for every subsequent time, including this most recent visit. Nothing. But it was good to see an old friend.

I was tempted to pull a Bill Murray in Ghostbusters 2 when he's taking pictures of a certain Carpathian, but maybe a cemetery isn't the best place to do that. But know in my mind I screamed, "Destroy me!"

Finding the place that looks like the Greek ruins on the cover of issue 3 was a little more difficult. Death is practically at the entrance. But I had to find the little island from which Fuller and I got the pictures for the third issue of Tabard Inn.

The cemetery was fairly deserted that day. I'd only seen one jogger there. But as I got closer to a forgotten corner I saw a coyote wandering around. Coyotes aren't super common around here, but they're not uncommon, either. Although this close to the city is a little weird. I'm more likely to see them across the street from where I live. The Prairie Path is home to more than a few.

But this guy looked a little big for a coyote, so I took a curve, and as I saw more of the front of the coyote, I realized, holy shit, it's a fucking WOLF. I don't think I've ever seen a dusty-colored wolf before, but that's what I was seeing in that moment. I stopped the car, and the wolf and I looked at each other for a while. I wondered what it would be like to come across such a creature in the wilderness. Wolves usually only attack in packs, but I felt certain that if I didn't have the protection of society and the car I was sitting in, this thing could tear me to pieces. If it wanted to.

It didn't want to. It seemed a little curious about me, but not curious enough to approach. So I waved, and it turned its head a little, and I drove off.

I did find the island, but that didn't mean I knew where the ruins were. I just knew I'd be able to find them once I had the island. It's a little island for a few graves, but you cross a bridge to get there. I like standing on bridges over small bodies of water because I can usually see the bottom, which means I can watch the fish. There are a lot of carp in that little creek, and I enjoyed my time watching them.

An attractive young woman approached me and asked if I was looking for someone. I smiled and said that I'm just enjoying the view. She said OK and walked away. Only then did I realize she was looking for a blind date. Meeting a blind date on an island in a cemetery? I'd love to hear that story.

But I make it a habit of not putting my nose where it doesn't belong. I'd found the island. I didn't need to walk around on it and interrupt her quiet time. I left her leaning on a grave, writing in a notebook.

I followed the path around until I found the ruins. They don't look quite like Greek ruins up close, but when seen through the trees from the island? Different story.

It's still a pretty excessive grave, but then again Graceland is full of those. I got up close to what I thought of as the Greek ruins.

It's a pretty imposing structure. I don't know who the Palmers were, but they must have been either very rich or very important or very both. A lot of local historical figures are buried at Graceland, including Allan Pinkerton.

I had the pictures I wanted, so I headed out of the cemetery. Which is kind of difficult because it's big, and you can get turned around easily. If you live in the Chicagoland area, I recommend spending an afternoon at Graceland. It's at the corner of Clark and Irving Park. It's a beautiful place.

Watch out for wolves . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #809: THE RETURN, PART 1

 

The last time I was out there was the week before I started working at my new job selling auto glass. But I drove out there last week just out of nostalgia's sake. Since I said I was throwing out all the remaining issues of Tabard Inn, the magazine I used to edit and publish, the locations where we shot the covers have been on my mind.

And if you're wondering, David William Fuller did all photo shoots for Tabard Inn *except* the bumper sticker photos. I was going to link to his website, but it's not there anymore. He works mostly as a DJ these days, so if you need a DJ, you can find him on my Facebook friends list. He used to be my neighbor, but the last time I saw him was for my friend, Jesse's, wedding. Which was a great day, from what I remember, which isn't much. I think those days were when the Liquor finally had me in its clutches and wouldn't let go. My drinking was pretty crazy in those days. But I remember Fuller being an excellent DJ.

At any rate, I first found the roadside tomb when I worked for the City of Elmhurst as a parts driver. I'm trying to remember where they sent me on this run. I'm pretty sure it was to a place out in Virgil, which is just about where farmland begins around here. There are farms before Virgil, but that's where farmland begins in earnest.

To get there you have to go down North Ave. for a long way. I'd never seen a roadside tomb before, and the fact that it was so close to home made it feel even weirder. I knew then that the first issue of my fiction magazine must bear this on its cover.

We had a little difficulty in getting out there, and it was at night, so of course in the middle of our photo shoot (without a permit, what do I look like, Mr. Moneybags?) we were stopped by the cops. Fuller's quick thinking got us through. He said we were working on a school project. We're both roughly the same age, but we always looked younger, so they bought it.

This time out was the first time I'd see the place clearly in the day (and without police lights flashing, I might add). So I took the picture above. I noticed for the first time that the tomb had a name on it: NORTON. And then I saw this little plaque on the gate:

That's pretty cool.

I heard a dog barking relentlessly, but it was across the street at a farm. As I went back to my car, I saw it was called the Norton Farm. There were a bunch of guys working by the barn, and I saw they were looking at me. It made me a bit self-conscious, especially now that I knew that whoever was buried here had living kin so very close by. This tomb is so old I doubt anyone living at the farm knew the deceased, but still. I never met my great-grandparents, for example, and I'd hate to think of some stranger taking pictures of their graves. So I got out of there.

Issues two and three had their covers taken at Graceland Cemetery about a hop, skip and jump from the Music Box Theater (and, oddly, an old friend's methadone clinic, where I drove her two days out of every week back in the summer of 2020. I went back there to take a few more photos. You'll see them in part 2 tomorrow night.

BOOKS IN STOCK

I have a bunch of books in stock, so if you're looking to get one (or more!) signed by me and sent to you (US only, sorry everyone else), this is the time and the place. Here is what I have. Let me know what you want either in the comments or send a DM to me on Twitter or Facebook or send an email to editor@talesofquestionabletaste.com. Each book is $12. If you want two, they are $22 combined. If you want three, they are a mere $30! That's shipping included!

--TALES OF UNSPEAKABLE TASTE

--BLOOD (only 1 copy left)

--AND JESUS CAME BACK (only 1 copy left)

--POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS (only 2 copies left)

--TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE (only 1 copy left)

--GONZO RISING (only 2 copies left)

I still have copies of my poetry chapbook, SHIT POEMS. If you buy any of my books here, you will get a copy of this for free! Or, if you want to just buy SHIT POEMS, it's $30 since it's a rarity limited to 30 copies.

Also, if you're interested in the literary magazine I used to edit and publish, TABARD INN, you can get a copy of issue one or two for $5 each. Issue three is $10. Or you can get all three for $15. If I published you in any of those issues, they're for free. Even if you weren't in that issue. (Within reason. I can't ship out, say, 20 of these things for free.)

Let me know if you're interested in any of these offerings! Thank you, as always, for reading!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #325: TABARD INN HAS BEEN ON MY MIND

 So I was thinking about my old magazine TABARD INN tonight. I edited this thing many years ago. Three issues. But it's been on my mind for the last week or two, actually. I have a few ideas about why it was never successful. Maybe the big one was my reluctance to do POD. I printed these fuckin' things first and then tried to sell them. Whoops! I'll go into another reason in a bit. Hold that thought. I'll get to it. Probably. I'm drunk--as usual--but I think I'll remember to get to it.

Regardless, I will never edit a magazine or anthology again. I have many reasons for both. The magazine I'll explain. The anthologies? Nope. You won't get that out of me unless you take me out for drinks. Like, a lot of drinks. Enough to cripple an elephant. And, naturally, off the record.

By the way, I've become friends with a lot of comics creators I'd been a fan of previous. I've interviewed many of them. They all know I was in comic book reporting. I'm out and have been for, what, a decade? And whenever I talk to them as a regular dude, they're still kind of cagey. Sometimes I wonder if I said "off the record" they'd open up a bit more. One of them actually did. Won't say who. If you follow me, you know the name. But this person trusted me, and once sworn to silence, I will forever keep that secret.

As I am unemployed, I have lots and lots of free time. I think maybe that's why I'm writing 10K words a day. Well, more like 8K now that the therapy thing is out of the way. Still better than my self-imposed 2K a day. I think it's also why I'm reading four books at the same time. Hey, I'm down from seven on January 1.

But I thought about the ridiculously difficult time I had getting someone to print the fucking thing. Issue one was so fucking offensive that no one wanted to print it. I even got someone to do it, and the young workers were happy to get it out there. They even took my money! And then the owner read it and said to give me back my money and files. I found someone who would print it! After a fucking age! They did all three!

So since I was thinking about TABARD INN, and I had the time, I wondered if maybe the printers were still around. I drove out in that direction to drive down the road to see if they were. I won't name them, just in case they're somewhere else and might get hate mail over the offensive shit, but they were on the same road as Victory Auto Wreckers. If you ever lived in my area (Chicago, if you don't know), you know them and their ancient commercial. In my opinion, there should be a really sleazy strip club in that neighborhood. Maybe down the road a bit further, as there is a police station near there.

Side note: sleazy strip clubs are my favorite. They're the places where you might get a decent handjob if you paid enough, and you might buy narcotics off a dancer or you might even get the clap from a lapdance that got a little too close. I miss the one at the end of I-290 that eventually got shut down for shady reasons.

In fact, now that I think about it, if you drove past my printers, turned right, went down a while, then turned left on Grand, there used to be a strip club there. I remember my writing partner when I was a journalist and I tried to get into the club to interview strippers to find out what they did for Easter. Bet you were thinking Valentine's Day, huh? Wrong, silly goose. We were, uh, refused service. I also drove a friend who also was an ex there once so she could fill out an application. It was called All Stars. It's a trucking company now, but for some perverse reason they left the sign up. I wonder how many dudes go in there to get lapdances only to be sold on truck storage.

So I drove by, looking for the printer, and sadly they're gone. Too bad. They helped me when no one else would. Some metal works company is there now. Ah well.

I stand by everything I published in that magazine, even the Anthony Haversham stories about Bobby Yandell, Private Investigator. Yeah, I wrote those. And that one by Jack Graves, the one about the guy who wants to fuck his dead mom and she turns out to be alive still. I wrote that one, too. I think it's in Tales of Questionable Taste, but I'm too lazy to look it up now.

What I don't stand by is how I acted as the host, the Crypt-Keeper of TABARD INN, if you will. It wasn't me. Well, it was more or less me . . . if I was an edgy and possibly alcoholic rock DJ. Not those shock jocks in the morning. Those are actually called "radio personalities." Isn't it weird that we had that shock jock period? I enjoyed it at the time, but looking back? *collar pull* But some part of my mind thought it would be a great idea to come off as a rock station DJ. This is why I don't trust my instincts. They are always wrong. I look back on that with a great deal of regret. It came off as kind of disgusting, especially the bumper sticker contests. I'm sorry about that. That was my mistake, and I own it 100%. This, by the way, is the other reason I thought the magazine failed. See? I'm not that drunk, am I? Well, maybe.

Another side note: offensive stories. I'm not talking about offensive-offensive. I'm talking about creatively offensive. Any asshole and fuckface and prickcunt can come along and sling the n-word around like they had practice. Same with the other f-word. And so on and so forth. That shit is just offensive-offensive. I have put awful words in awful characters' mouths, but it's to prove something about their moral shortcomings. To use it just to use it is just showing you're a piece of shit.

I'm talking about writing transgressive shit that pushes the envelope but does so creatively. Like, say, a dude you thought was making a video to show he can suck his own dick but it's really because he wants to video him biting it off. Who wrote that one? Oh . . . maybe it's in a book named after the title of a certain blog. Thanks to M for publishing it first!

Here are a few other reasons I regret the magazine.

I got a lot of letters from mental patients. Nothing wrong with that. I'd be a hypocrite if I talked shit about that, especially after the psych ward. But some would go a bit too far off the beam. Like the guy who decided I was his agent, and he said I should pay Google a bunch of money to make sure that anytime someone looked up science fiction, his name would be the first to come up. I had to explain to him that I was not the guy he thought I was. I lived more or less in my grandmother's basement at the time. When I sent that to him, I never heard from him again. So yeah. If you get a stalker, and he was borderline stalker, tell them something pathetic about you. They'll go away.

Which reminds me, I regretted not getting that PO Box. I stupidly used my own address, which everyone tried to talk me out of. I figured I could handle anyone who came after me, but then I remembered that I have relatives. Awkward at least. Possibly borderline criminal at most. I thought I was saving money. Again, whoops!

I regretted the sense that because I was a publisher, I could do things for people. That was absolutely not true. I couldn't. But people thought I could. One guy asked me for Stephen King's number. Granted, now that I'm a lot older and I have more experience, I have discovered that if you're in my business, we all know each other. Or if we don't, we at least know of each other.

Full disclosure: I met Stephen King once. He was on his Bag of Bones tour at the Harold Washington Library in Chicago on Congress Pkwy and State St. Previously I'd sent him some artwork my friend did. His name is Rob Tannahill, and for mostly my amusement he would do King parodies and replace the characters with Beavis and Butt-Head. Like, this was comic book level stuff. For example, here are a couple of titles. THE DORK HALF. THE STUPID DEATH OF BEAVIS VERRILL. THE SCAMMED. So three titles, then. I even got to be in his parody of The Shawshank Redemption. So with Rob's permission I copied them and sent them to King. When I got through the line and shook King's hand, I told him that I was the one who sent the Beavis and Butt-Head parodies that my friend had made. And let me tell you, you have NEVER lived your life until you've heard King do his Beavis impression. (I seem to be thinking about impressions lately, too, I guess.) He got this demented look on his face and said, with his Maine twang, "FIRE! FIRE!"

Does he know who I am? Probably not. I was a guest twice on The Horror Show, which I've heard he listens to, so maybe? I've been mentioned a few times without me being on, so maybe? Chet Williamson, whom I worship, once did a live read for Dong of Frankenstein, which might stand out to King, so maybe? But I'm certain he doesn't remember the exchange. When you're Stephen King, you meet a lot of people. A LOT.

So no. I don't have his phone number.

I also got a lot of submissions from prisoners. I got to publish one of them, even. I couldn't pay him because the prison system forbade it. I loved those letters because I believe that any prisoner who submits a story to a publication is trying to redeem themselves. A lot of them were even good stories, just not right for what I had in mind. But then there was this one letter I got from a prisoner who wanted to pay me to write stories for him. It would have been a huge payday, actually, if I had done it. I have still never made as much money for one story that he would have paid me for one story. But I said no. Sometimes you can't take the money and keep your integrity. That's the shit you've got to turn down. I needed the money at the time. Desperately. I'm not lying to you when I say that I would be a lot better off financially speaking if I'd taken the money. I said no. What he wanted was time travel porn. He wanted mind control porn. He wanted racially charged porn that was essentially rape porn. In addition to that, he requested just plain old rape porn.

I look up all the prisoners who sent me stuff. Sometimes the crime is understandable. Sometimes it's really bad, but the person genuinely regrets it and wants to redeem themselves and maybe contribute to society. But this guy? He's going to be in prison long after I die. Long after he dies. I shit you not, he might get out a hundred and twenty years from now. Since he's not a Highlander, I'm guessing he won't see the streets again any time in his life. He's got a lot of rape charges. Manslaughter charges. FUCKING KIDNAPPING CHARGES. If I remember right, he even robbed a bank. Some of those rapes were not committed against adults.

So no. I'm going to turn down that money. I'd like to be rich someday, but there are routes I am not willing to go down. Hell, I might not even be able.

Sometimes, you morally have to turn down the money. You HAVE TO.

Yet another side note: I actually know someone who did time for a bank robbery. He got kicked out of the Navy for doing it. Again, no names. He's suffered enough.

So yeah. You'll never see issue four, as I predicted in issue three. You'll never see another anthology I've edited. For vastly different reasons, I've turned down four editing jobs for other authors in the last three months. Paying jobs. In one case, a very good paying job. I mostly did it to focus on my own shit, especially since I was going to start that new job soon. But the job keeps getting delayed. It's something I'm reconsidering. It's going into that lizard brain conversation I'm going to have soon, maybe tomorrow or the next day.

So yeah. I guess if you want copies, I have boxes of them still cluttering up my living room. I've taken to giving them away as a three-issue package for anyone who buys my books at conventions. Since conventions are canceled until the plague finally dies, what the hell? You don't even have to buy anything from me. If you want a single issue, Paypal me a dollar for shipping. If you want all three, make it five for shipping. If I actually published you in any one of them, and you want me to send you copies, you won't even have to pay for shipping. Unless you're ordering like ten or twenty or something. We'll talk. The issues will be free, but the shipping might get crazy. Contact me in the comments or social media or wherever you know me from. Hell, if I can hand deliver them, I'll do it for free.

Just know that I kind of come off like a dick as the host. Sorry.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #219: SERIES CHARACTERS

It's a rarity, but I like series characters every once in a while. Lucas Davenport and Virgil Flowers. Bill Hodges and Roland and friends. Harry Potter. Rambo. Burke and Cross. Hap and Leonard. Tony and Vince. Hell, going back to my childhood, Frank and Joe Hardy.

OK, maybe I like them more than I think. But I never had an urge to write series characters. The tough part is writing a story that resonates so strongly that readers lust for more tales about those people living in your head. It's a daunting task, and I'm almost certain that no author thinks about series characters until they accidentally happen. In their heads it's usually one-and-done until readers love the hell out of it.

I don't write sequels. There was that one time when I was a gay porn writer. I wrote under the name of Anthony Haversham. I sold "Bobby Yandell, Private Investigator" to INDULGE FOR MEN. The pay was really fucking good, so I wrote another Yandell story called "My Dick is Quick." The first one was an homage to Chandler. The second had Spillane written all over it. Sadly IFM was not interested in pursuing a series character. No one else was willing to pick it up. I, being a real scumbag, published the story in the first TABARD INN. I don't like putting my own stories in work I'm editing, but I made an exception in that case because it was a pen name, and I had no intention of ever revealing the truth. (spoiler) There are times when I think I should do a third story but inspired by Jim Thompson. Maybe someday.

But about a year ago I was struck with a great idea for series characters. I've been puzzling the stories out ever since. I even decided to convert another idea for this series. I have a huge background for it. There is even a mysterious character that is going to link all of the stories together, and I know all about his FUBAR past, and I can't wait to get it all on paper.

I started writing the first in this series yesterday. It's inspired by my previous job, and it's reinforced by my new job. I sincerely hope that someone is interested in publishing stories in this series. I desperately want to pepper these things throughout magazines and anthologies for the next ten years. I think I've mentioned before how much I love Manly Wade Wellman's John the Balladeer stories, and how I like unexpectedly running into him in a random anthology. I want readers to feel the same when they come upon these savage and twisted (and somehow noble) characters.

I'm almost done with the first story. I anticipate there being at least a dozen of these things. I hope these sell well. If you're a publisher and interested in a series about the same characters doing vastly different and fucked up things, please let me know.

If you're a reader, I hope I can get this thing before your eyes. I'd really like to know what you think.

HEY FUCKERS #23: ALL PACKED UP AND READY TO GO

I'm all packed up and ready to go to the Printer's Row Lit Fest this weekend (and, of course, the new Bizarro Hour at G-Mart Comics on Saturday night). Two big boxes and one small box, all full of books, magazines and other wonders. You should see the box Shamus and Erika at Rooster Republic sent me. It weighs a shit-ton, and it's completely full of amazing books. When the fest is over, I'll be half-tempted to say that I shipped it back, but it must have gotten lost in the mail. (Heh.)


Seriously, I haven't seen so many StrangeHouse books in one place, not even at the horror shows when I worked their booth. Plus, there's a lot of Rooster Republic titles in there. If you're going to the fest, and you haven't gotten any of these books yet, you're going to need to stop by our table, which is 205/207 in Q2. I don't know where that is, specifically, but that's where I'll be this Saturday and Sunday with some kick ass writers, eager to sell some books.


This box is so fucking heavy, though, that I want it to weigh a lot less when I take it back home with me. A LOT. It is my mission to sell so many of these books that I can carry the box for blocks without it bothering me. I want to make it so that it weighs three-quarters less than what it weighs now before this weekend is through. Not just because I have a broken tailbone and shouldn't be lifting heavy things, but also because dammit, I want these writers to make some money and get some recognition.


As it turns out, all my books sold out at Texas Frightmare, so none of the books that were included in the package were TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE or POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS. I'm supplying my own copies for the show. That's what's in the one small box I mentioned before. The other big box, though?


Here's the deal. I have fourteen of my own books with me. I also have fourteen incentive packages. If you buy my book (either of them), I will give you one of these packages for FREE. FREEEEEEEEEEEE. These packages include all three issues of my old genre fiction magazine, TABARD INN, in addition to two bumper stickers I used to sell back in those days (PUSSY SATISFIES and IT'S A PARASITE NOT A CHOICE) and the brand new Bruni/Danger US presidential bumper sticker. All of that for free with the purchase of one of my books.


Hell. If you're still at the show near the end of the day on Sunday, and I have some of these packages left, stop by and I'll give 'em to you, no strings attached, just so I don't have to take that giant fucking box home with me. But don't count on that. I might just sell all my books and not have any packages left.


Or if you want to be a cheap bastid, come out for the Bizarro Hour, and I'll give away free issues of TABARD INN just for showing up. It'll just be single issues, not the packages, though.


Bottom line: I want to go home with zero boxes. I'm a realist, and I'm going to just have to accept that it's probably not going to happen. I don't want to come home with any incentive packages, though. And I will consider it a failure if I haven't reduced the RRP box to a quarter of its size. Help me make this happen.


By the way, I've been told that book prices are $10 each. $25 if you buy three. Those are some great prices. I hope to see you all there, and I hope you all take it easy on my broken tailbone. Thanks for reading!

HEY FUCKERS #10: WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE TABARD INN AUTHORS?

I was feeling a little sentimental today, thinking back on my old fiction magazine, TABARD INN. I got to wondering, whatever happened to all those people I published way back in the day? Sure, a few of them were friends before I published them, so I know where they are. I kept in touch with a few writers who had become my friends during the process of me publishing them, so I know where they are. But what about everyone else? Did they drop off the face of the earth? Did I discover anyone who went on to bigger and better writing credits?


(OK, there were a few who already had a pretty good list of writing credits before I came along, but what about those who didn't? If I may be allowed *ahem* a moment of possible hubris.)


I spent a lot of my downtime at work today Googling all of those writers who I haven't heard from since publishing them, and sadly I discovered that most of them either didn't have writing careers or they actually did fall off the face of the earth and are probably swimming in the ether. I found a few others, and while there were no big names, they seemed to still be writing and getting a publication out there every once in a while. Shockingly few of them had websites, though.


One of these guys became a writer of children's books, which I find incredibly funny, considering the graphic, doomed nature of his story in #3. Another guy just got a graphic novel Kickstarter going, and it looks pretty cool. One guy is in prison.


But there was one guy who surprised me. Norman Nathan, who wrote "Evolution" for #3, seems to have done well for himself in life, but he has the unfortunate distinction of being the first TABARD INN author to pass away. It threw me for a loop. I didn't expect to find out that one of the writers I'd published had died, and it brought me down quite a bit.


I guess it's because of the brutal vitality of the magazine that I didn't expect anyone involved to be so mortal. Intellectually, I knew there were a lot of older writers submitting stories to me, but emotionally, it just felt like there was such youth and vigor to the contributors that death would have never occurred to me.


If you have a copy of #3, give "Evolution" a read. It's a melancholy story, just the right mood for this kind of news. RIP Norman Nathan.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #21: THREE DAYS GRACE

Before I continue with this one, I want to make it perfectly clear: I used to work in a library. In fact, I worked at one for almost 10 years. I know a lot of things about how libraries are run, but there's one thing I just don't get.


The three-day grace period.


Why three days? I tried to look it up, but no one ever talks about the library grace period. It's always about credit card payments and storage and other shit.


The only thing I can think of is this: Jesus was dead for three days. Could I possibly be right? What if Jesus had been dead longer?


What if . . . what if he didn't get to return his overdue scrolls when he came back? He was too busy with St. Peter over the whole denying-me-three-times thing. Ascension is a very time-consuming thing.


I hope he does come back soon. I'd be cool with a 2,000-year grace period.


What?! Having to pay overdue fines sucks. *sigh* All right, I'm going to bed. Goodnight, fuckers.








































































You still with me? Do you want to know what working at a library was REALLY like? DM me your address on Facebook or Twitter or email me at editor@talesofquestionabletaste.com, and I'll send you the first two issues of TABARD INN for free. Inside, you'll find my old Tales from the Library column. You will never look at the library the same way.

ONE QUESTION INTERVIEWS: J. MICHAEL SHELL

J. Michael Shell has made his rounds as a writer, having work that has appeared in many publications, most notably BOUND FOR EVIL, which was nominated for the Shirley Jackson Award. (And, *ahem* TABARD INN: TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE, of course.) When he attended the University of South Carolina, he actually studied under James Dickey, who wrote TO THE WHITE SEA, THE EAGLE’S MILE and, most famously, DELIVERANCE.

ME: We became friends because of my old fiction magazine, TABARD INN. I published a story by you, “Dick Dog,” in issue three. However, there was one story that almost made it into issue two. If you’ll recall, I liked the story, but I disagreed with the ending, and I said I’d buy it if you changed the ending. You stuck to your guns and politely declined when a lesser writer would have probably caved in, afraid to lose a sale. What advice do you have for up-and-comers in regards to holding your own with editors?

JMS: If I remember correctly, the story you’re referring to was, “Home to Roost (The Missionary’s Position).” Your objection was that humans as a food source for aliens had been done before. You might even have referenced an old TWILIGHT ZONE episode, but this was some time ago, and I can’t be sure. I do remember being polite about it, and I can almost quote verbatim what I told you: “A writer should never be held responsible for what has been written before by somebody else.” I did, by the way, end up selling the piece, and it was published “as is.”

I mentioned that I was polite about it for this reason—it’s always a good idea. Especially if the venue is one you’d like to break into. TABARD INN was one of those. I knew its editor had an excellent, literary eye (not to mention magnificently questionable taste). I showed respect because I HAD respect (and ultimately ended up with a story in a truly great issue of a splendid magazine).

HOWEVER, I would never tell a writer not to burn a bridge if it needed burning, and I’ve burned a few with some serious invective. Some editors are dilettantes, some are failed writers holding a grudge. These you need to guard against. NEVER let one of these have their way with you just to get something into print. It’s whorish and pitiful.

That said, I have, on occasion, made suggested edits when I found them thoughtful and intelligent, OR when I didn’t think they were harmful to the piece and I really wanted the sale. I have to admit, I never LIKE making changes. SO, when it comes to short fiction, I don’t submit until I’ve read the piece at least thirty times with a red pen in my hand. If the manuscript is clean as a fat-tongued cat’s ass, and exactly the way you want it, you’ll absolutely know if an editor with critical remarks has the wherewithal to diddle your work. If you don’t like what he’s asking for, tell him nicely that you simply cannot make those changes, but the piece is still available as is. If he rejects, fine, that’s his legitimate prerogative. Send it elsewhere. If he still clamors about the changes he wants, tell him to fuck off.

The great author Muriel Spark (who was big enough in her day to forbid ANY editing) said, “If I wrote it, it’s grammatical.” I love that kind of chutzpah! But a good editor—especially if we’re talking about a novel—can be an asset. Let’s face it, if you’re a serious writer, you’re much too close to your work. And even if you edit the thing fifty times, in three hundred or more pages, you WILL MISS SOMETHING. Usually it’s something that will piss you off royally if it appears in print. So don’t be a dick. Listen carefully and think before you explode. If you DO, however, decide on detonation, go ahead and be bloody brilliant about it. If nothing else, it feels good.

Oh yes, Mr. Bruni. If you remember correctly, I DID allow you to change the title of my story “Change of Venue” to “Dick Dog.” See how much I liked you—even when you were rejecting my work right and left! (Author smiles.)

All of the above is true, but it wasn’t “Home to Roost” that I was thinking about. It was another story, “Fishing Whole.” It would seem that the editor in me hasn’t died off, because I asked for a rewrite of the first paragraph. He chose to let his answer stand and added the following:

JMS: Having had my dubious memory (Oldtimer’s Disease) properly chastised, I am now aware that it was NOT “Home to Roost” that John wanted me to change, but “Fishing Whole” (which, to this day, I haven’t sold). “Home to Roost” John rejected outright for the reason stated above, and I simply wrote back to bitch. By that time (this was AFTER “Fishing Whole”), John and I (writers of similar ilk) had a rapport that allowed such bitching. DON’T DO IT WITH AN UNKNOWN EDITOR. If he rejects, suck it up and send something else. Burning a bridge is one thing (on a rare and well-deserved occasion), but bitching to an unknown editor is just stupid, and will get you nowhere.

J. Michael Shell’s recent novel, THE APPRENTICE JOURNALS, is out now and can be bought here.

EVERYONE'S GOT ONE #26: THE LEGACY OF TABARD INN

Most of you who know me know that I’ve been dragged kicking and screaming into the 21^st Century. It’s not that I hate tech, it’s fine for other people. Me? I’m usually satisfied with what I have. The computer I write this on is about twelve years old. I just recently got internet in my home a couple of years ago. I first got a cell phone maybe five years ago.

My internet presence started because of my late magazine, TABARD INN: TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE. Getting the name out there was just too expensive without the aid of social media. I couldn’t get anyone to pay attention to me except writers who wanted me to publish them. A bunch of friends harassed me, trying to get me to join MySpace. I relented, but only because I wanted to use it as a tool for marketing TABARD INN. I got on board just in time for MySpace to become irrelevant. I joined Facebook for much the same reason. I joined Twitter after the death of TI, mostly to keep my own name out there. My blog and website are all testament to TI’s past.

Of course, social media is fun as all fuck. That helps.

But my internet presence isn’t the only thing that survives my ill-fated publication. Back in the day, TI’s biggest audience was composed of prisoners and mental patients. That sounds like a joke, but it isn’t. I received more correspondence from these groups than from anyone else. It was enough so that I started getting nervous about having TI’s address be my actual house. There was one guy who decided that I was his agent, and he wanted me to pay Google on his behalf so that every time someone searched for “science fiction,” his name would come up.

The rest of the world has gotten the message: TI has closed its doors to submissions, for now and ever. However, since the prisoners and mental patients are locked away, word has yet to reach them. They continue to send me submissions, or they ask for my guidelines. Every time I get a letter from the department of corrections from anywhere in America, I know that TI has received yet another submission.

But all of that changed when I received a letter from the Arizona Department of Corrections. I’m not going to name this guy because I’m afraid someone out there might read this and take him up on his offer. I doubt I could get sued over this, since his crimes are a matter of public record, and I have the letter he wrote and signed to me, but I just don’t want to take the chance that someone might mistake my purpose in writing this.

This guy, shockingly enough, did NOT want to submit a story to my defunct magazine. No, he wanted stories FROM me, in addition to any TI writer who wanted to take him up. It would seem that he’s got a ton of money. He wants people to send him stories, and in return, he’ll select three he likes best and pay the writers for them. First and second place gets a thousand, and third place gets $500. He promises that these stories will never be used for publication, that they’re only for his “own personal reading pleasure.”

They can’t be any ol’ stories, though. Oh no. He has themes he wants writers to follow, and anything not fitting either theme “won’t be considered in any way shape or form.” What are these two themes, you might ask?

“The next two months are to be strickly erotic mind controled stories with Mother or Wife is Submissive and Son, husband, stranger male is dom or white couples where husband has a Black boss who Blackmails white wife into submissive sex. [Too many “sic’s” to note here.]”

That’s, uh, pretty creepy. In fact, that might be the creepiest thing anyone has ever sent to me. It’s harmless on the surface, but when one considers the prisoner’s motives, things get a bit more intense. I have no doubt whatsoever that this dude intends to jerk off while reading these stories, since he starts out his letter by telling me he can’t get nudie pictures behind bars.

Every time I get a letter from a prisoner, I research them. They’ve all turned out to be murderers. Not serial killers, but one-and-done killers.

This time, I jumped the gun and told fellow Napalm Assaulter Cliff Breaux about this crazy letter I’d received before looking up my letter writer. He immediately researched this guy and found a lot of disturbing things about him. He was charged with nine counts of sexual assault, two counts of sexual abuse (I’m not sure how that differs from assault, though), one count of burglary in the 2^nd degree, one count of armed robbery and, last but not least, one count of kidnapping. Holy. Fucking. Shit. Apparently, all of this took place over the course of two years. He was once released, and within five days, he’d been arrested again for raping someone. Guilty of everything. 100 years from today’s date, if he lives long enough, he’ll still be in prison, and he’ll still be looking at 11 more years behind bars.

Cliff asked me if I would write those stories for that kind of money. No, I wouldn’t. Those stories don’t appeal to me. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been paid for writing porn, but I can’t let someone else dictate what I want to write. But say we take away the specific subject matter and just say porn. Say we take away the rap sheet. Would I write for someone in prison for pretty fucking good money for a story? Because let’s face it, writers get paid shit. A thousand bucks for a story? That’s mighty enticing for a guy who usually gets paid between $25-50 for a short story.

That question’s a bit harder. Ultimately, I don’t think I would. My conscience would trouble me too much. Sure, I’d be the one financially benefiting from such an arrangement, but I don’t think I could bring myself to bring such sexual satisfaction to a guy in prison. I’ve done a lot of awful things for money, but I don’t think I could ever forgive myself for being such a whore. Besides, who knows what kind of fantasies I’d be fueling?

Well, in this guy’s case, I know. He says he’s got a bunch of friends already writing stories for him, and it disgusts me to think about the kind of person who would do this. But he’s aware of how fucked he is, since he ends his missive in this self-righteous way: “If your not interested thats fine to, theres lots of places like yours who will understand my money is as green as the next persons. [Again, too many “sic’s” to mention.]

I always prided myself on the fact that TABARD INN was an oasis for extreme writers, unafraid of tackling any subject, no matter how gruesome or questionable, but I found my limit when this guy wrote to me.

'TIS THE SEASON FOR FREE SHIT!

It's almost time for Christmas, and I'm in a giving mood. At Days of the Dead in Schaumburg this past month, I offered a full set of TABARD INN magazines for everyone who bought my StrangeHouse book, TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE. The promotion worked so well that we sold out of my book by Sunday. I think it's time to bring back the deal.


I have two books out right now. If you buy them both, let me know at editor@talesofquestionabletaste.com, and I will send you all three issues of TABARD INN for free. You won't even have to pay shipping. Just send me your physical address, and I'll send 'em off. OK?





STRIP is my first novel and is available on Kindle only (at least for now). It's about a group of desperate men who attempt to rob a Mafia-run strip club that is being watched by an undercover cop. Of course, things go horribly wrong. If you're looking for an ultraviolent, hypersexed crime book, this is what you want. You can find it on Amazon here.





TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE is my second book, my first collection of short stories. True to the title, these stories are nasty buggers. If you're not careful, they'll murder your brain. We have monsters, portals to other worlds, superstitious baseball players, euthanasia enthusiasts, necrophilia, cannibalism and a skyscraper full of affluent, murderous perverts. Something for everyone's taste, questionable as it may be. This book is available on Kindle, but you can also get it in paperback from Amazon here.


Want to know more about TABARD INN? Feel free to look around here. There are three issues. The first contains four short stories, part one of a serial, four poems and two articles. Issue two has five stories, part two of a serial, one poem, two articles and a bunch of beautiful black and white pictures. Issue three--the biggest of them all--has a whopping 31 stories, the third and final part of a serial, one poem, one article and some of the most beautiful black and white pictures you've ever seen. That's 54 titles and a lot of pictures FOR FREE. How could you not be interested in that?


But wait! There's more! If you review these books (honestly, of course; I'm not looking to bribe anyone), either on Amazon, Goodreads or your own blog, please forward it to me, and I'll post it on Twitter (@tusitalabruni). Whether you liked them or hated them, I'll email you a free short story in a Word document featuring one of the characters from STRIP. The offer expires on New Year's Day.


Merry Free Shit Day!

COOL SHIT 5-26-11

STRANGE ADVENTURES #1: I’m not going to say a lot about this anthology because I’m actually going to review it next week for the Napalm Assault. However, there was one story in here I felt I couldn’t review from an objective viewpoint. “All the Pretty Ponies” written by Lauren Beukes and illustrated by Inaki Miranda treads over the same territory as a story I wrote a while ago called “Slummin’ It” (which was published in the first issue of TABARD INN). In my story, rich assholes liked to experience life through the eyes of the homeless. If they pay enough money, they can feel what it’s like to get killed. Well, in this story, Beukes expresses the same idea. A group of the rich and beautiful gather together so they can plug their consciousness into a couple of poverty-stricken people. They call it “going slumming,” and when a rich woman plugs into a kidnapped pregnant woman, she feels cravings and excitedly hopes it’s meth. There is a twist, however, that separates it from my story, in which SPOILER ALERT it is showed that the government keeps a bunch of poor people hooked up to dream machines, in which they imagine that they’re rich and beautiful people. So who is plugging into whom? An answer, by the way, that we never get. END OF SPOILERS. I’m not saying that Beukes ripped me off. My story is based on an old idea (with my own twist, of course). But I thought it would be dishonest of me to review it based on the closeness, so I thought I’d bring it up here. Buy this book, by the way.

CROSSED 3D: Holy shit, William Christensen finally delivered on this book. Granted, he swore it’d be out by April, but what the hell? Better late than never. I have mixed feelings about this book. There are a lot of parallels between CROSSED and zombie books, and it’s totally justified. However, there have been a lot of army versus zombie stuff lately, and this is one of those stories. A group of soldiers go on a rescue mission to Manhattan to bring a doctor back to the people who need her, and shit happens. A lot of shit happens. But nothing very remarkable. There is one very interesting thing that happens, though: a character who accidentally reveals himself to be a racist eventually turns into one of the Crossed, and what is the first thing he does? Starts relentlessly calling out racial epithets. This implies that the Crossed do whatever was in their minds when they were human beings. Which is a frightening thought, when you give it some consideration. Ennis and Lapham are essentially saying that these horrible and vile things are inside all of us, and the only thing that keeps us in check is conscience. The last thing I want to talk about is the 3D effects. A lot of it gets lost because the details are too small for 3D to effectively display, and because a lot of the speech balloons are small, it’s hard to read. It also doesn’t help that whenever the Crossed speak, their words appear in red . . . which doesn’t show up very well in a 3D book. There’s no need for this gimmickry. This book would have been good without it. Still, when it gets the effects right, they’re pretty cool. Some of the bigger panels reveal this very nicely, especially if something huge is going on in the background. It’s good stuff. Not great, but definitely worth the nine bucks it costs. And the 3D glasses are pretty cool; if you wear them, the design makes you look like one of the Crossed.